Hints of flesh in the forgery
of flesh, a habitat of deconstructed
trucks, rusted in a mud-slaked
parking lot: all that is not
submitted to light, now that a little
bit indoctrinates its stillness
on the skin of dead leaves. You were
not a mistake. Shrug off
your long affliction. Underneath
the world, in the shallow
bruising of pure realia,
unlearn the accuracy of tears.
L
Lessons in Gyotaku




